


Where Snowdrops Bloom

by LittleLalaith



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gildor is a tease, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sam is shy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLalaith/pseuds/LittleLalaith
Summary: Samwise Gamgee is enchanted by the sight of elves in the forests near the Shire.... I may have taken that canon fact and make a little fanon romance for your entertainment.Poetically implied sex,but not graphically detailed.





	Where Snowdrops Bloom

Sam was starting to regret leaving the shire. They had barely left the safety of their ancestral home and already the journey seemed too terrible to endure; the world was too large, too wild, the dark embrace of the woodlands was too close compared to the farmed and cultivated landscape of The Shire. It was all well and good reading stories of adventure and danger from the comfort of a Hobbit-hole, filled with warming foods and surrounded by good company. It was something entirely different to sit in the open wilderness and experience the threats of the world for yourself. Until now, his greatest danger in life had been the risk of shearing off a fingertip or falling from an orchard-ladder; hardly the stuff of legend. But this, this was a living, breathing night. The darkness seemed all the more foreboding since they had caught sight of the Dark Riders... It had been a close call at the Brandywine river, too close. 

Outnumbered and defenceless, they nestled amongst the tight gathering of trees and hedgerows, hoping for a little rest before they continued their long trek to Bree. Samwise helped his companions to clear some space for their bedrolls and prayed to the spirits of the forest that it wouldn't rain. At least there wasn't any poison ivy to contend with; just a bunch of weeds and wild-roots. He mapped them out carefully, identifying and naming each plant in an effort to settle his frayed nerves: bindweed, dandelion, English ivy, red-vines, nettle, thistle, wild chamomile... He smiled softly and ventured closer, pruning a few bushels of nettle and chamomile (his calloused hands had long ago grown unfeeling to the sting of the nettles and brambles, just as his feet had) and brought them to the small circle of hobbits he was starting to think of as his travelling companions. 

"Here, we'll get some water boiling and I'll make us up some chamomile broth. Help us calm our nerves..."

"Nerves? Speak for yourself, me and Pippin are born adventurers," Merry piped in with disproportionate levity. Pippin's expression betrayed his uncertainty but Samwise said nothing. 

They kept the fire low, sheltering the simmering firewood with tall rocks to block out the wind and minimise the amount of light that shone through. Every sound was a firecracker, sending a jolt of tension through the spines of the inexperienced explorers. Cracked twigs and animal howls, and the song of some far off nocturnal bird. Samwise listened absentmindedly, watching to ensure the chamomile didn't split in the water. It wasn't until Mister Frodo's brow furrowed with confusion that he paid closer heed and realised that the songs weren't from the birds at all... Those were voices. Beautiful voices... He sat up a little and scanned the broken horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of the source between the shadow-dressed trees. 

There, just a few yards off, was the glow of a campfire; larger than their own and far more open. He hesitated for a moment, ignoring the insistent suggestions of Pippin that they should go and take a look. For all they knew, this was a trick; a way to draw Mister Frodo and his trinket back to the reaches of the Dark Riders. 

But that sound... 

Samwise stood reluctantly as his companions summoned the courage to venture nearer, the simmering pan of chamomile broth held in front of him as a dual-purpose weapon and gift. They picked their way through the underbrush uncertainly, drawing back a thatch of ivy to reveal the gathered travelers.

And oh how beautiful they were...

"Are those elves?" Samwise barely dared to breathe.

They were astounding. No number of fables or legends could have prepared him, no litany of folk-tales retold and regurgitated around the common picnic tables of local fairs would have ever been enough to steel his senses for the sight before him. A company of ethereal men and women sat with instruments on their slender laps, marble-carved features caught in the rapturous joy of singing:

"A ned l' rasc-dae, i  
maeglin gorn lin t'l. i  
ecthel h'n lin s'la  
orthor i v'r.

Hammo men mi lin caun,  
a caro estel v'n thand.  
A tiro men, o lin cair an n?r  
Lacho ammen, lacho calad  
E'rendil-naur, ir men  
beri-al ned l?' beleg baur!

The sound of their voices encircled him, humming over his skin and refreshing his spirit. He couldn't understand a word of it, but he hardly needed to. He knew that nothing so perfect could be anything vulgar or crass. He wouldn't think such creatures capable of it...

"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo" came the familiar voice of his friend, though the words were a surprise to Samwise. Granted, he had known that Frodo knew a little Elvish thanks to his uncle, but he hadn't expected to hear it spoken so fluently. "Might we join you?"

The apparent leader of the celestial party stood and smiled at Frodo, offering out a hand in greeting. "Well met, young halfling. If I did not know better, I would swear you were the vision of a young Bilbo Baggins." he chuckled; no, not chuckled, but trilled. 

"He's my uncle. I'm afraid I don't recall your name from his stories... but my name is Frodo," the over-confident hobbit introduced them all by name. Sam was caught somewhere between a smile and a cringe when he heard his bumpkin-oathed name reflected and refined on the lips of their host. 

"Frodo Baggins, Merry Brandybuck, Pippin Took and Samwise Gamgee, it is a pleasure," the bright grey eyes of the Noldorin elf passed over each of them, hesitating on Sam's features for what he hoped was a second longer than his peers. "My name is Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod... and I see you have brought us a broth to enjoy with our merriment."

Sam all but dropped the pan of broth in his sudden efforts to offer the pan out, his gaze caught on Gildor's smile. 

"Chamomile," he explained clumsily, looking to his tuffed toes as the blood rushed to his face. The words were easier to find when he wasn't looking at the visage of such beauty. "There was wild chamomile by the riverside... I have fresh nettle too if you've a pan to boil it in."

Gildor nodded slightly, stepping back to allow the hobbits into their company. Samwise kept his gaze on the broth, placing it gently amongst the assorted baked treats and fruits arranged on an oak stump near the campfire. Baked treats that Pippin very quickly helped himself to... Sam shot the younger halfling a glare, though it was promptly ignored as Pip settled himself between Merry and a starlit masterpiece with a lute cradled in her arms. Frodo had abandoned him too, taking up conversation with one of the older elves amongst their party who spoke of Bilbo's visit through Rivendell. How could they all speak so freely?! How were their tongues not shamed into silence for their rustic, oafish accents and harsh phrasing? How could they so unabashedly speak of their flickering experiences to these immortal spirits?

A feather-light hand on his shoulder stilled his thoughts, mud-brown eyes rising to greet the impossibly warm mercury of Gildor's. "Thank you, Samwise. Please, sit with me a moment and tell me of the flora here, of the treasures we might hope to find in the hedgerows. You seem like a man of the natural world. 

A man of dirt and maggots, Samwise thought bitterly; equal parts honoured and embarrassed to sit beside their host as an equal. The feeling broiling in his chest sparked a memory, tying to the fire and steel that lined his gut as he gazed on Gildor, adding to his shame. A memory of barley and wheat, of sweat-soaked shirts and discarded waistcoats at the peak of the harvest. Waistcoats, soon joined by shirts and later by breeches, as Sam had received secret reward for his assistance with the farmer's livelihood. That fire he'd slowly kindled and hastily extinguished with the rising of the dawn had started to glow again in his veins. 

"I know a little, though I doubt we have as many fine flowers and trees as the elven woods. It's mostly wild herbs and berry bracken surrounding Hobbiton, sometimes we get bluebells and snowdrops during the spring..." he explained timidly, gesturing to the rough-bladed grass that entrenched the fallen oak stump. "It might look a little rough now, but you should see how it blooms when the warm winds blow through."

"And what of you, Samwise? Do you bloom with the warmer winds too?" Gildor teased, and though he knew that he should be ashamed or offended, the hobbit couldn't help but smile. 

"Oh, I bloom just fine with a tipple of barley-wine," he returned, pouring himself a little chamomile broth to help settle his screaming senses. "Have you ever tried it?"

"I can't say that I have. Mulberry and Elderberry, even the clear-bodied wine of Lorien Gooseberries, but never barley-wine. Perhaps we should return to Hobbiton in the autumn so that we can sample some."

"Lorien gooseberries..." mimicked Sam, disbelieving. "Maybe you'd best not. Barley-wine would be a poor change-over... but your company would make the harvest something to remember, that's for sure."

Gildor paused for a moment, his pine-dark hair dancing in the low evening breeze. Samwise was acutely aware of those mithriline eyes as they scanned his ruddy features; older in his 30-some years than Gildor could ever be in his innumerable lifetimes. Little could he ever realise that Gildor was marking the warm friendliness of Sam's dark eyes, the stirring of courage that had started to take root in his posture; as astounded as Sam was by the elegance and grace of the elven folk, so too was Gildor enraptured by the honest and homely comfort promised by Sam's strong mass. It was surprising for the elf to see such a stalwart and constant creature so swayed by the nothingness of his teasing. A summer breeze against the body of an immovable bough, yet caused to bend and shiver as though he were more willow than oak. 

"Would you like to try some Lorien wine?" Gildor offered, not having a taste for the sweet ticture himself and having more than his fair share left from their travels. 

"Are you sure?" Sam asked uncertainly, thrilled by the chance to try something so exotic but unsure in his standing with the generous host. How could chamomile broth compare to the gift of Lorien wine? 

"I insist," Gildor assured him, taking Sam's cup and trading it with his own. 

Sam took it hesitantly and scented the rich wine, touching just the smallest amount to his lips at first. In that moment he swore never to touch barley-wine again; it could never be so sweet, so warming as the elixer of Lorien. He puffed out his cheek slightly and blew a short huff of appreciation before taking a heartier sip. The warmth of the wine adding to the fire in his rose-stained cheeks.

"Remind me to set up a home in Lothlorien," he grinned, the strong wine striking with deceptive strength against his empty stomach. 

"You'd be wasted in Lothlorien, they grow nothing but vineyards and birch. I fancy you'd look far more charming with a crown of daffodils and daisies," Gildor countered, twisting a tawny curl back into place among the nest of Sam's hair. 

The heat dispersed from his cheeks for a moment, the touch chasing it lower in his stomach. He leaned into it hesitantly, gentle dexterous fingers mapping the breaks in his briar-like locks. Gildor's smile was too easy to trust, so comforting in its subtlety. Sam reached for the lily-white wrist and coaxed Gildor's hand into his own. 

"Any crown you saw fit to give me, I'd treasure more than the Evenstar," he murmured softly, not daring to raise his voice beyond the small bubble of their interaction. As he spoke, the words built a mask for him, hiding his desires behind poetry until he could dare to meet Gildor's gaze. "Be it bracken or bramble, I'd wear it around my heart till it grew so bold with longing that it tore free and sought yours."

The words and the wine, the winter grey of Gildor's eyes and the weathered skin of his calloused hands on the ivory smoothness of the elf's palm; it all rolled around in his mind, forcing the cinder-bright flakes of poetry out of his poorly-schooled lips and laying it at Gildor's feet to tread out with his delicate heel. Instead, the elf's words breathed stronger fire into those tokens, igniting something too searing to contain for much longer. 

"Then it's journey will be a short one. Mine is here in your hands," Gildor smirked, pulling Sam's scarred knuckles to his flawless lips. "Perhaps you'd care to show me what else might be done with them..."

Gildor stood, Sam's hand still in his own. He stepped delicately over the felled truck of the tree and guided his poetic suitor to a sheltered recess a little distance from the camp. Despite the cold chill of the air, Sam's blood ran fire through him, heart hammering against the forge of the flames to grant him tempered courage. 

As Gildor settled himself amongst the flattened lemongrass and dandelion leaves, Sam knelt over him and pressed wine-sweetened lips against Gildor's. The heavy fibers of his cloak and waistjacket were stifling, his fumbling fingers moved expertly aside as the elven dream took over the haste-hardened work. His own hands were free to roam as his teeth and lips lay siege to the orchid-pale column of Gildor's neck; plucking aside leather and hide petals to glimpse the slender body beneath. His breathing faltered, fingers tracing spider-silk light over the elf's chest and stomach, afraid that his earth-roughened hands might somehow mar the flawless landscape of his body.

Gildor leaned into the touch, basking in the admiration. Not the fickle or superficial affections of his own kind, the haughty double-edged flattery... The longing and lust burning in those eyes were so sincere that he questioned whether he had ever felt so genuinely desired in all his years. It cut away the casual levity of his teasing, baring up his own need. 

"Don't fret, melethril. I will not break... And I shall bear the marks proudly." He winked, drawing the halfling against him and rolling his hips hard against Sam's. 

A groan broke from Sam's chest, spilling over Gildor's tongue as he tore away the last of their vestiges, firm hands offering the friction his all-but-iridescent lover had needed. Gildor's marble musculature softened and flowed as warm satin under Sam's touch, yielding moans and gasps as the hobbit's physical worship grew more desperate with desire. 

Gildor shifted slightly, legs encircling Sam's hips and urging him closer. He guided Sam, taming his need with slow, tender measures of submission, until they were both consumed by their need. Sam was hypnotised by every gasp, every subtle change in Gildor's vulpine features, memorising the call and response of his body and the elf's. When Gildor's pleasure peaked, the call of Sam's name beckoned him into oblivion with his lover. 

Sam recovered by slow degrees, taking place at Gildor's side. He was faintly aware of the rough scratch of an elven cloak being drawn over them, ghost-like hands smoothing his hair as he placed exhausted kisses along Gildor's shoulder. Then darkness and rest consumed. 

He woke alone, covered in his own cloak. He dressed slowly, half convinced he had dreamed his encounter with Gildor... But as he patted the pocket of his waistjacket, he noticed a small embossment. Exploring the pocket, he drew out a dried snowdrop and a note. 

"When the warmer winds blow, may our hearts bloom again."


End file.
